You might know me, or you might not know me at all, because how you have seen me depends entirely on which chapter of my life you happened to catch. I was almost completely silent through elementary and junior high school. A little louder and more expressive in senior high. Some mixture of both during my gap year. A bit full of myself in my early semesters. And then, somewhere in the middle semesters and through this internship, something closer to a genuinely curious kid. So if someone asks whether I am an introvert or an extrovert, the honest answer is that it depends entirely on which version of me you happened to meet.
This year changed me, more than most. It started in January, when I found myself sinking into the same question over and over. If we are all going to separate one day, why bother building a relationship at all? And the deeper the relationship, the deeper the hole left behind when it ends.
That question kept me from people. I stopped talking enough. I put some distance between myself and my friends, simply because I had convinced myself I would not be around for long, and I did not want to invest in bonds only to leave grief behind when I eventually disappeared. I spent my days thinking, writing, and sometimes crying, searching for some kind of meaning that would make the question stop.
Then in February, a senior mentioned something about an internship. Something in me said, why not give it a chance. And so my ordinary days began to shift. I told myself that in this chapter I would be the loud, curious version of myself. I would ask everything, not only because I needed the answers, but because I wanted people to explain themselves, to show me how they saw the world. Too much information felt like a good problem to have, since the whole reason I had come was to gather as much experience as I could.
Time passed, and somehow I got the internship. I found myself inside a new family, a new group, and it felt good in a way I had not expected. Still, I kept my expectations low, not out of disbelief, but because I was already tired in ways I could not fully explain.
By April, I could feel the bonds growing deeper, though I refused to acknowledge it. I treated everyone the same, and told myself that was enough. Then in June, something shifted again. I loved the work, loved learning, but the sheer amount I still needed to understand pressed down on me until a quiet voice asked, "Kis, do you really think you can handle all of this alone?" I ended up in tears, overwhelmed by how much of the world, even my own job, I still did not understand.
I told my senior I had been crying. He said, "It is fine, at least you already understand English, you can learn the rest whenever you need to, just ask me." From that day on, I spent most of my time asking him about the things I did not understand, and talking with my teammates, who had by then become something closer to partners, about work, and about life.
That same month, I found myself drawn to someone. I cannot fully explain it, except to say that maybe this was the thing that pulled me out of circling life and death, and back toward simply being a person. Someone who might, one day, be a good father, even if it did not end up being her.
June kept surprising me. That pull only grew stronger, until near the end of the month I found myself praying, quietly and simply. "If she is good for me, let us be together. If she is not, let us at least have a normal relationship, and let me leave without guilt or sorrow."
The days that followed still carried this new version of me, curious, but no longer circling questions of life and death. This Rakhis was drawn to learning, to asking, to understanding how things worked.
But life did not give me a clean answer to that prayer. July brought a difficulty of its own, one I briefly thought might be the answer itself. Instead, we talked. The friendship mended. We understood each other a little better, and we continued on.
Then came August, and one date in particular, the twenty first, which I know will stay with me as a core memory for the rest of my life. Everything about that day went well. It began with a real conversation with a friend from junior high. And when it's nearly "going home" time, i have a conversation with her, the kind where we talked about things we both loved, laughed, and simply enjoyed being in each other's company. Nothing about it felt forced. That night, I finally bought merchandise from a game I love more than most things, and the whole day settled into place as one of the best I had had in a long time.
Then the distance returned, as it tends to. We did not speak for the last two weeks before the final day.
And on that actual last day, I received exactly what I had asked for in the second half of my prayer. A normal day. No conflict to carry. No guilt to shoulder. No devastation to walk away with. I would not claim to know, with any certainty, that this was God answering my prayer in some specific, literal way. No one can know that for certain.
But I can understand why, from where I stood, the sequence of it all felt meaningful.
Maybe the answer was never a clear yes, that she was the person I was meant to be with. And maybe it was not a clear no either, telling me to forget her entirely. Maybe it was something quieter than either.
I was given the experience itself. I got to know her. We had conflict, and I learned how to repair something rather than let it break. I had a day I did not expect to be so good. I felt the distance return, familiar as ever. And when the seven months of the internship finally ended, I was not left with another wound.
In that last moment, we actually managed a proper goodbye. It was simple. Just, "hati-hati, Kis." And I answered, "dadah." And we walked away from each other.
That is almost exactly the ending my June self had asked for. Not because I stopped caring. Not because everything was explained. But because I did not need to be angry at her, did not need to blame myself, and did not need to force the relationship into becoming something it was not ready to be. And somehow, I still got to keep the mungkin, the maybe.
Maybe our paths cross again someday. Maybe we grow closer. Maybe we do not, and years from now she is simply someone I remember when I think back on this internship. I asked for clarity, and what I received instead was something quieter, the ability to leave without needing an answer at all.
Seven months came to an end. I came out of it a new Rakhis, with a new way of thinking, and there are still question marks left hanging. And yet tonight, I can say, okay, maybe that is it. And somehow, that is enough. Because I have learned, slowly and the hard way, that some questions are better left unsolved.